


The List Of The Things Sergio And Mesut Borrows from One Another

by nikuy



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Domestic, Drabble, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Quadruple Drabble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-23
Updated: 2012-11-23
Packaged: 2017-11-19 07:35:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/570782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nikuy/pseuds/nikuy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It was one thing to get bored and disturb the hell out of others’ peaceful evening, but it was a whole different thing to get your hands on Sergio’s precious collection of swimming trunks.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The List Of The Things Sergio And Mesut Borrows from One Another

**Author's Note:**

> Have you seen Serhio driving Mesut's car ~~and me nuts~~? Yes, that.
> 
> Anyway, please enjoy.

**I:  Yellow Swimming Trunks**

 

It wasn’t an unusual sight to see Mesut lingering in his house anymore; the kid easily gets bored and he had taken the liberty to make himself comfortable in Sergio’s house. The Spaniard often found him taking over his game consoles in the game room, munching his foods in the kitchen, or lying on his bed with his laptop (sometimes caught scrolling through Sergio’s internet history), but when the Spaniard stepped out of the shower and into his walk-in-closet, he found Mesut rummaging through his damn huge wardrobe. It was one thing to get bored and disturb the hell out of others’ peaceful evening, but it was a whole different thing to get your hands on Sergio’s precious collection of swimming trunks.

 

“I started to wish that my wardrobe is the gate to Narnia and you’d get lost in it.” Sergio tilted his head amusedly at Mesut’s surprised expression as he noticed his presence.

 

“It’s a near thing.” The German muttered with an evident blush on his cheeks, holding Sergio’s yellow trunks nervously.

 

Sergio chuckled and opened a drawer across his swimming trunks’; it was Mesut after all. He didn’t even find it curious as how he had never felt annoyed enough at Mesut’s antics. Sami had probably suffered more than him. “What do you need?”

 

Mesut squeezed the trunks in his hand, running his fingers nervously along the white stripes on the side of them. “Tomorrow I’ll be going with the earliest flight to Miami, but I forgot to shop for swimming trunks…”

 

The Spaniard eyed him with a little squint, “You _have_ some.”

 

“I don’t like them. They’re boring.”

 

 _How reasonable_ , Sergio noted mentally. “You can keep those.” He gestured to the yellow ones Mesut was holding and the boy beamed.

 

*

 

**II: The Red Pants**

 

Mesut was drooling in his sleep, he had planned to sleep the day off since it was Sunday and he had been up all night playing FIFA with Sergio. He had never felt so blessed that they invented those lids that prevented morning sunlight to go through the windows. He blanket felt so good and warm, so comfy to snuggle with so he rolled himself in it and made himself a giant comfortable cocoon. He snored softly, peacefully, dreaming of nothing but endless green yard to run with a football controlled by his magic—

 

The door slammed open and Mesut nearly jumped off the bed in surprise. Thanks to his layers of blankets that kept him still on the bed, he didn’t. Lazily he opened his eyes and glared at Sergio who smelt like he poured the whole perfume from the bottle all over himself, his hair was slightly damp, and he strolled straight to Mesut’s wardrobe.

 

“Jesus, you’re still sleeping? It’s 10’o clock already.” he said as he opened the drawer and checked on Mesut’s hanged clothes inside. The German moaned and buried his head under his pillow, trying to block the sounds his teammate was making by shuffling the hangers and go back to sleep, but it was futile as Sergio pulled his blanket mercilessly off him with one jerk, “Where do you keep your trousers, _tio_?”

 

“Left drawer.” Mesut threw daggers at Sergio’s ignoring back, pulling his blanket around him, “Take anything you want and leave me alone.” He buried himself again under the blanket, pulling a pillow and wrapped his arms and legs around it, getting comfortable again. Drowsiness started to invite him back to sleep, but then a loud curse in Spanish was heard and it flew away in a blink of an eye.

 

“ _Joder_ , they’re way too small!”

 

Mesut snuck his head out of the blanket and found the older man in his red pants. He couldn’t help but to snigger at how body-fitting they were on Sergio while they usually look more comfortable on him. The Spaniard turned a pout at him and he laughed a little harder.

 

“They’re two sizes smaller than you, you’re lucky they can fit your giant limbs.” Mesut slurred sleepily with a grin.

 

Sergio rolled his eyes, choosing not to comment on that and moved his legs around. It was comfortable enough and he kinda’ liked how those pants looked on him, maybe it would be fine.

 

“I’m leaving then.” He announced as he put his cardigan around his collar and made a loose knot out of the sleeves.

 

“Get me orange juice when you get back.” Mesut yawned as he waved lazily. Sergio only stuck his tongue out and left the midfielder in peace; he did note to himself to stop by the supermarket before going home today though.

 

*

 

**III: Jersey**

 

Disappointment wasn’t something Sergio was unfamiliar of. No matter how undefeatable Real Madrid is said to be, there were always expectations that led to disappointment at certain circumstances. The look on Mesut’s face when he was subbed by Kaka wasn’t something that should be mean that much to him, but he felt that urge. An urge to pull him over and tell him that it’d be alright, he’d be back playing again, Mourinho might even put him back in the start-up-line and let him to play fully for 90 minutes like he usually did before, but even to him his own voice didn’t sound convincing enough. He knew well what Mesut was going through; every footballer had at least one of these moments. He had experienced his own and this might be Mesut’s first.

 

He watched Mesut’s face as he poured the remained water in his bottle onto his head, he watched how the younger man’s fingers twitched as he tried to even his breath. He was angry, sad, upset—he was feeling what was normal and he actually coped up with it pretty well. It bugged the defender a little that Mesut didn’t even leak his emotions by talking though; he sat two seats away from him in silence instead.

 

Sergio heard Mourinho telling him to gear up and he unzipped his jacket. He felt Mesut’s eyes on him, and he turned to him. The boy smiled weakly and offered his fist, “Get’em, man.”

 

The Spaniard bumped his fist with the German’s gently and smiled. He was about to warm up and suddenly an idea struck him; an outrageously ridiculous idea he had never thought he was capable of thinking before. Swiftly he turned at Mesut, he knew it’d sound bizarre, but he couldn’t care anymore.

 

“Take your jersey off.”

 

Mesut blipped his eyes at him, “…what?”

 

“Take it off!”

 

The younger man eyed him quizzically but he did without any further question. It was damp with the water and sweat from forty minutes of a good use, positively wouldn’t smell good no matter how pleasant Mesut’s smell usually was (it wasn’t as if he pays attention to it, no). There was no turning back, the Spaniard thought, as he took his own jersey off and grabbed the younger man’s. Mesut looked puzzled for a second before he realized what the older man was doing and he looked as if he was about to scream, but Sergio ignored him and put the slightly smaller, used jersey on and squinted. It smelt _horrible_.

 

“Sergio, are you crazy?!” Mesut threw a fit, but the Spaniard ignored him and put his own jersey back on over Mesut’s. “What are you doing?? It’s dirty—disgusting—oh my god, don’t!” Mesut jumped onto his feet and tugged on Sergio’s jersey, “Take it off!”

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, little man.” The Sevillian merely grinned and ruffled the boy’s hair.

 

He could feel Mesut’s worried eyes following him everywhere he goes until Mourinho told him to go on and he ignored those eyes. He didn’t know what he was doing, but it did things to his teammate. He was no longer sitting in the farthest seat on the lines of bench; he was sitting on the front and was watching the game intently. He actually could hear him yelling and cheering for him and the others on the pitch, voicing out his thought and _not_ shutting up. It somehow made Sergio’s feet lighter and his head clearer. He ran from one corner to another swiftly, dribbling the ball, trying to score over and over again.

 

In the end, he didn’t score, but he answered to the reporter after the match who asked about all the commotion that he would dedicate his first goal in the _liga_ only for Mesut, a very good friend of his.

 

In the changing room, the others were already done showering except for him, Arbie, Cris, and Iker, so he quickly went to his own locker for fresh clothes and towel. When he was digging into his bag for those, a hand slapped the back of his head and he turned to see Mesut, freshly out of the shower with his towel around his waist. The man’s expression was unreadable, his cheeks were pink, and his hair was dripping wet. Sergio only blinked. “What?”

 

“Pepe and Marcelo asked if we’re secretly in a relationship and even Sami asked if there’s something going on that he didn’t know of.” The German mumbled in embarrassment.

 

The Spaniard laughed, “If those are true, you should congratulate yourself.”

 

“It’s embarrassing,” Mesut glared, “And you’re so fucking stupid.”

 

Sergio was about to say something—maybe ‘sorry’ or ‘I wasn’t thinking straight’, he only knew that he wanted to do it and he did. Before he could say anything though, Mesut touched his wrist gently and his eyes softened, “Thank you.”

 

*

 

**IV: Cars**

 

Sergio skipped his way through the living room towards the kitchen, glancing at Mesut who was busy playing some game on his XBOX while talking in German into the mouthpiece of the headset. He carried on and checked the kitchen counter, the sink, the dining table— _nada_. He walked out of the kitchen, passing the living room only to see Mesut excitedly rambled into his mouthpiece as he hit on the buttons of his controller furiously. He seemed to be cursing in his mother language and Sergio let him be. He skipped towards the front door and checked the crystal bowl where Mesut usually keep his keys in; there was only Mesut’s car key.

 

Sighing, he took the car key and stalked back into the living room, “You’re going somewhere today?” he asked Mesut.

 

“Nah. Mario and I will play until dinner.” The younger man nonchalantly replied without taking his eyes off the screen.

 

“Okay then, I’m taking your car to see Rene.” Sergio leaned over the sofa to take his jacket, “See you at dinnertime.” He put his jacket on.

 

“Wait, wait!” Mesut took his headset off and kneeled on the sofa to turn at his teammate. Gently he tugged the taller man and pulled his face closer to give him a peck on his lips. “I love you.”

 

Sergio couldn’t help the smile that bloomed on his lips once the three magical words left Mesut’s sweet, pink lips. He put his jacket on and leaned a little closer to press his lips once again, a little firmer. “Love you.” He replied sincerely.

 

Mesut grinned at him in satisfaction and put his headset back on, “Get me food on your way back.”

 

Sergio chuckled reached out to squeeze the midfielder’s ridiculously beautiful nose with his fore and middle finger, making the younger man flail. Laughing, he walked out of the living room while contemplating which one of Mesut’s favorite foods he should buy later.

 

*

 


End file.
